


Teen Wolf Tumblr Ficlets

by ElisAttack



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alive Hale Family, Alternate Universe - Leverage Fusion, Alternate Universe - Space, BDSM, Birthday Party, Bodyguard Derek, Caring Derek, Deputy Derek, Derek Hale & Sheriff Stilinski Bonding, Derek Hale Loves Stiles Stilinski, Derek in Sweaters, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Firefighter Stiles, Ghosts, Gunner Derek, Hurt Stiles, Hurt/Comfort, Innuendo, Librarian Stiles, M/M, Medium Stiles, Mutual Pining, Neckz 'n' Throats, Oblivious Stiles, Pilot Stiles Stilinski, Pining Derek Hale, President's Kid Stiles Stilinski, Professor Derek, Protective Derek, Sharing Clothes, Stiles With Dogs, Teenage Derek, The Conjuring AU, The Office AU, Turkish Wrestling, goober derek
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-05
Updated: 2018-08-06
Packaged: 2018-08-13 02:53:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 16,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7959565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElisAttack/pseuds/ElisAttack
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of all my Tumblr ficlets/drabbles</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt sent by nicoeatsbooks:
> 
> A tiny prompt: I took all your sweaters home from the laundromat by mistake!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had fun writing this, hope you like!!

Stiles holds up the soft cashmere sweater with the thumb holes between his index and thumb and says, “You’re not mine.”

He looks down at his—or what he thought was his—laundry basket and admits that it is most _definitely_ not his laundry basket.

1\.  There’s no _living la vida Yoda_ sticker on the side with Yoda dressed in a Hawaiian shirt, coconut and bendy straw included.  Stiles thinks it’s funny.  Scott doesn’t get it because he’s a _heathen_. 

2\.  It’s a totally different colour, which _yes_ , Stiles could understand, because he was very much inebriated last night when he went to do his laundry.  He needs to be.  Stiles is a T.A. for a 101 class, and if he isn’t, he won’t be able to look at papers without laughing his ass off.

3\.   There is no plaid.  Like not a single piece, not even plaid boxers.  Stiles is scandalized.  How could this person live, _survive even_ , without the wonders that is wearing variations of the same plaid shirt on khakis every single day of their life.

Stiles shakes his head, and shrugs, pulling the cashmere sweater over his undershirt.  Oh well, finders keepers.  He wonders for a second what the person who ended up with all his plaid did with it, before the swaddling goodness of the cashmere consumes him again, making him think of nothing but fluff clouds and rainbows.  Mmmm, soft.

He bikes to class, feeling warmer than he’s ever been before while wearing only two layers.  Maybe he should invest in more sweaters like this?  Stiles lives on a grad student budget, which means he eats ramen and bok-choi most days, and if he’s lucky, finds himself an egg to crack on top.  If he’s lucky.

But then again, how much could a cashmere sweater cost, really?  Ten bucks?

He skids his bike to a stop, quickly locking it (He learned his lesson after the second stolen bike), before running through the school and crashing through the classroom doors, right on time.  He looks to the front row, and is surprised to see Mr. stoic-never-ever-going-to-be-late-for-class-as-long-as-I-live-or-at-least-until-the-earth-freezes-over-Hale, is surprisingly not in his seat.

Stiles bites his lip in worry.  He means it when he says Derek’s never been late, Stiles has known him for just over six months now and he’s always at least ten minutes early for class.  Stiles hopes nothing is wrong with him.  He may say Derek’s punctuality pisses him off, but that doesn’t mean he wants anything bad to happen to the guy.  

Stiles admires Derek.  He’s good to the baby undergrads, teaches them like he cares, and not like it’s just a job to him, unlike a few unmentionables… (Jackson Whittemore, _ehem_.) 

Also, Stiles may or may not have a huge honking crush on Derek, but that has nothing to do with anything..  Seriously.   _Nothing_.

Just as the prof steps up to the podium, Stiles looks over his shoulder one last time, only to see Derek Hale himself slide into the classroom, shutting the door behind him quietly.

He freezes when he sees Stiles looking at him, before blood rushes to his cute, little ears faster than Stiles could double-take at what Derek’s wearing.

Because now Stiles knows why Derek’s late, and it has everything to do with the sweater Stiles is currently wearing, and the too small plaid shirt Derek’s got pulled on, looking like it’s in danger of popping its buttons at any moment.  And that Stiles recognizes as one of his.

Derek’s eyes wander over Stiles’ arms, from his bony wrists revealed when he pulled the sweater’s sleeves to his elbows, to his collarbone, where the sweater’s neck is so stretched it dips far enough to see the healthy spattering of hairs on his chest.

Derek turns redder than a tomato and nearly falls down the classroom steps.

Stiles grins like a hyena.  Best mistake ever.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt sent by disturbed-katten:
> 
> Turkish wrestling. Seriously i saw a gif this morning and it was killing me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I honestly had to look that up, and this happened…
> 
> NSFW gif in chapter

***

 

 

 

 

 

“Ooookay, buddy, don’t you think you’re getting a bit too familiar there?”  Stiles hisses, batting at the man’s hand slipping into his pants.

Stiles signed up for a wrestling class at the community center, expecting to learn how to fight, so he could at least keep Derek and his over protective ass off his back.  Instead, he gets Bilal, _on_ his back.  A dude who’s ten times more muscular than Derek, and whose accent makes Stiles’ want to faint from blood loss.  As in all his blood goes to his dick.  

Bisexuality, _check_.

“I have to hold the kisbet,” Bilal patiently instructs, “It is the best way.”  He shoves his hand further into Stiles’ fancy leather pants, causing him to squawk like a parrot, arms flailing in front of him.

This is most definitely not self defense, oh boy. 

Only a second later he finds himself staring up at the beautiful, blue sky.  Bilal, having picked him up and performed some sort of flipping maneuver which involved a hand down Stiles’ pants, and an arm wrapped over his crotch.

Bilal peers over him, blocking the beautiful view with his own beautiful face, worry in his gaze.  “Are you hurt little Mieczysław?”

Stiles can barely raise his hand to give Bilal a thumbs up, before dropping back into the grass and praying for an errant lightning bolt.  He doesn’t know if he can take another hour of whatever the heck this is.

Somehow he gets through the rest of the class, mostly by avoiding Bilal’s gaze, and pointing to other scared looking boys that obviously thought wrestling meant something different than this.  Personally, Stiles always imagined giant rubber bands and people bouncing around a ring like a couple of jumping beans.

He’s in the shower trying to scrub a thick layer of olive oil from his skin—unsuccessfully, he might add—when Derek Hale, in all his muscular, hairy glory walks into the shower-room, wearing nothing but a tiny towel, holding a shower-caddie, and a hot pink loofah.  Stiles remembers Derek mentioned signing up for spin class at the community center.

“Is that strawberry?”  Stiles gapes at the bottle of bodywash in the caddie.  It has cute cartoon strawberries on the label, and seems so unlike Derek.

Derek freezes when he sees Stiles and looks like he’s about to bolt, before his nose flares.  “Why do you smell like olive oil?”

Stiles shakes his head.  “Nuh huh, mister, I asked first.”

Derek sighs heavily like Stiles’ question is such a heavy burden, before walking over and taking the shower next to Stiles.  “I like strawberry, is that a crime?”

“I guess it’s better than the blood of your enemies.”

Derek stares at him blankly before dropping the towel.  Stiles turns around so quickly, he nearly slips and falls, braining himself on the shower handle, luckily Derek’s reflexes are fast enough to catch him.

“Thanks, dude.”  Stiles says, still not looking down, lest he gets a complex.  He can’t be blamed, Derek’s hotter than the sun, and Stiles is just a pale skinny thing—all sarcasm and breakable bone.

“So, the olive oil?”

Stiles scratches the back of his head.  “I signed up for wrestling?”

Derek frowns.  “The only wrestling classes offered right now are taught by my accountant.”

“Bilal’s an accountant?”  Stiles screeches.  “Wowza, beauty _and_ brains.”

“He’s married,”  Derek looks at Stiles, displeasure in his tone.

“Yuuuup, I saw the ring.  Don’t worry, I have another guy on my mind.”  It’s only when Stiles finishes the sentence that he realizes he said _guy_ , not Lydia.  “Okay, yeah, today’s been great, but I think Ima gonna go. Yup, yup, tootles!”

“Stiles,”  Derek says in his I-mean-business voice, “Who’s the guy?”

Stiles licks his lips nervously, “Uh, you?”

This time it’s Derek’s turn to slip and fall, and Stiles is very much not fast enough to catch him.  

The shower looks like someone was murdered in it after Stiles helps Derek up, but the kiss Derek lays on him after is totally worth it.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt sent by zhinni:
> 
> “hi new neighbor… i don’t know you, you don’t know me, but PLEASE come kill this spider it’s as big as my face”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *shudders* urg, spiders… okay, so I’ve already read a come kill spider for me, neighbour fic so I changed it up a bit, hope you don’t mind!

Someone lets out an otherworldly shriek and Derek startles, his pen scratching over his delicately written notes, ink ruining his beautiful work.  He loves his fountain pen, but sometimes…

The owner of the shriek runs out of the stacks like a bat straight out of hell, right for Derek’s table.  He stops just before he runs into Derek, skidding on his heels.  

“Help me,”  the man pants, his voice frightened, face pale like he’s just seen a ghost.

“Are you alright?”  Derek asks, suddenly worried, checking over the admittedly cute man’s—whose name tag declares him a librarian named Stiles—shoulder for anyone chasing him.  “Was someone hurting you?”

“Oh god no, but there’s this spider the size of my face, and I swear, it wants to eat me.”

Derek blinks.  He honestly doesn’t know what he did to deserve this.  

Firstly, Laura drinks the last of the coffee, and doesn’t buy more.  Secondly, the janitor kicks him out of his office because they’re fumigating for fleas.  Thirdly, he’s being forced to work in the university’s library because the campus has no room, and it was either the library or a broom closet he couldn’t even dream of fitting in.

Derek slowly turns away from Stiles, back to his work.

“Oh please, you’ve got to help me,”  Stiles says, gripping at Derek’s elbow desperately, “It’s holding the classics section hostage, and a student really needs this copy of _Orlando_.”

Derek purses his lips, before sighing, rising from his seat reluctantly.  Derek may be many things, but he will never keep a student from reading and Experiencing™ Virginia Woolf.

The spider turns out not to be the size of Stiles’ face because they don’t live in freaking Australia.  But after he carries it over to the window, placing it on the outer ledge, he does get Stiles’ number, and an offer for a thank you blowjob Derek thinks he might actually cash out on.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt sent by lelecalhoun:
> 
> “I see you walking your ridiculously awesome dog every morning and I can’t decide who I have a bigger crush on.” Or “It’s 3am, you are my ridiculously hot neighbor and we’re standing outside freezing because the drunk college kids on the 4th floor set off the fire alarm.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dude, um, how bout both? Dogs are freakin’ awesome.

The greyhound looks at him with big soulful eyes, and Stiles is captivated.  

Her owner is more eyebrows than soulful, but is almost as captivating.  Key word: almost.  Stiles would take a dog over a human any day.

The greyhound shivers and Stiles feels his heart go out to the beautiful beast.  There’s nothing her owner can do about it, considering he’s wearing nothing but a pair of boxer briefs with a band so worn it’s slipping down his butt.

Stiles sighs, knowing exactly what he has to do.  He pulls the woolen blanket from his shoulders and drapes it around the greyhound’s neck, scratching her under the chin when she noses his forehead in thanks.

Stiles looks up to see her owner staring at him with wide eyes.  Stiles blushes, rising to his feet, scratching the back of his head nervously.

“You didn’t have to do that,”  the guy says, shaking his head, “But thanks anyway, I hate seeing her hurting.”  The guy explains, “She’s a rescue I’m fostering.”

Oh, that makes sense.  He doesn’t think someone would want to keep such an active breed in small student housing unless there were dire circumstances.

“Stiles.”  He sticks out his hand, arm now covered in goosebumps from the cold.

“Derek.”  The guy, _Derek_ , offers back with a faint smile and an equally goosebumpy hand.  “And this is Daisy.”

“I’ve seen you around campus with her.”  Stiles admits.  “She always looks like she’s walking you.”

Derek smiles down at his dog, lightly patting her on the head, “Yeah, she knows who the Alpha is.”

Sirens sound, announcing the arrival of the firetruck, and Daisy quivers, quaking at Derek’s heel, and Stiles _understands.  S_ he must have been a racing dog.  Stiles crouches again and delicately rubs her neck, whispering soft nothings to her and cooing until she finally calms down.

He feels a hand touch the small of his back as Derek joins him, running his other hand along her flank.

They sit together, Daisy lying on the grass between them as they wait for the fire department to leave.  When they’re given the all clear, and make it back inside, Derek clears his throat.  “How do you feel about coffee in the middle of the night?”  He offers, leaning against his door jamb.

“Dude, I’m a college student, I’m up for coffee anytime.”  Stiles says with a wide grin, shutting his own door, and walking over to Derek’s who steps aside to let him enter.

Derek chuckles, shutting the door behind them both.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt sent by kormantic:
> 
> “We’re already roommates and there’s a paid University study for monogamous couples and I’m broke as shit this semester. Come on, I already know your favorite brand of protein powder. How hard can it be to fake it for some sweet, sweet cash?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haha, dude, this prompt is gold, but take into account I know nothing about paid studies…

“How’s my favourite roomie doing?”  Stiles collapses on his stomach on Derek’s bed, dislodging the book he was reading.  Derek frowns, pushing his glasses up his nose.  He might have a crush on Stiles the size of Everest, but nothing comes between him an a book, _nothing_. 

“I’m your only roommate,”  Derek says, long suffering.

“That may be true, but you are my favourite,”  Stiles winks and Derek blushes to his ears.  Damn Stiles and his flirting and his winks and his horrible, beautiful, awful mouth.

“Soooo,”  Stiles kicks his legs distractedly as he draws random designs on Derek’s sheets with a pinkie.

“Spit it out, god Stiles, please.”

Stiles scratches the back of his head.  “So you know how the psych department got that shitload of money from the state?”  Derek nods.  “Well, they’re doing a study for monogamous couples, and since we’re both monogamously pathetic by ourselves, I was wondering if you wanted to pretend to be my boyfriend so we could actually afford to pay the water bill this month?”

Derek snorts.  “Speak for yourself, I like being alone.”  Derek picks his book up and flips to the page he was on before.

“Please?”

“No.”

“Pweeeease?”

“No, Stiles.”

“It’s $400.”

“When do we have to sign up?”

Turns out Stiles already signed them up without Derek even knowing about it.  He tries to be pissed off about it, but it just goes to show how well Stiles knows him.  They’re both broke.  Derek’s not turning down $400, even though being in a fake relationship with Stiles for the next month is going to be nothing but torture.  

They’re hooked up to machines that read brain waves or something, Derek doesn’t know, he’s a Classics student, he _failed_ science in high school.

The lady controlling the study, Morrell, reads them questions and they’re expected to answer as truthfully as possible, or the machine would wail like a banshee.  Questions from have you ever cheated on your partner?   _No_.  He couldn’t cheat on Stiles because they’re not actually dating—to, on a scale from one to ten how angry do you feel when your partner does something you hate?   _Umm, 5?_ Stiles eats all his food sometimes so Derek has to go without.  But, he doesn’t feel too bad about it because it means Stiles isn’t starving.  

Stiles doesn’t annoy him as much as he used to.  And considering Derek spends the majority of his hands beneath his shorts time fantasizing about Stiles, well, it only makes sense.

“On to the next set of questions then.”  Morrell says ominously, flipping to the next page.  Derek meets Stiles’ eyes over her shoulder, wondering just what lies they’re going to have to make up if she starts asking when they fell in love. 

(For Derek, it was the moment Stiles showed up for his first baseball game, sophomore year, wearing an old shirt with Derek’s name and player number scrawled on the back in sharpie and glitter glue.)

“On a scale of one to ten, how would you rate your sex life?”  Morrell asks Derek.

“Uh, 10,”  Derek squeaks out nervously, and the machine—that horrible, awful machine that should have wailed like a siren because he was _lying_ , he and Stiles do not _have_ a sex life, Derek just has very explicit fantasies about Stiles which leads to top tier orgasms—remains silent like death while Morrell hums and notes down whatever.  

Stiles stares at him like he’s seeing him for the first time.

Derek sinks in his seat and wishing for this to just be over.

An hour later, Derek runs out the the psych department’s door, hoping to at least make it home so he can lock himself in his room and never come out.  But before he can make it down the first few steps, Stiles grabs his arm and refuses to let go no matter how hard Derek tries to shake him off.

“So, you think I’m a 10 in the sack?”  Stiles says slyly when Derek finally gives up on trying to get away.  “I must say, dude, imaginary me must have set the bar real high, that’s going to be tough for real me to beat.”

Derek looks up at him to see a familiar grin on Stiles’ face.  “You’re okay with it?”  He asks nervously.

Stiles leans forward and places a gentle peck on Derek’s lips.  “Way better than okay with it.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt sent by luvs-jade:
> 
> I’m all about Deputy!Derek and oblivious!Stiles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, two of my favourite tropes, I also added in fireman!Stiles cause of reasons…

“Sweetie, when a deputy and a fireman hate each other very much, well…”  Stiles makes some vague movements with his hand.  Derek makes a face of disapproval, obviously not agreeing with Stiles’ explanation.  

As if he could do any better.  

The kid with the devil cat—the cat that has left gouges down the side of Stiles’ face—stares up at them with wide brown eyes, blinking in confusion.  “They kiss and get married?”

Stiles sighs and hangs his head.  More like they find excuses to tear each other’s throats out any chance they get.  Although, for the past hour while the two of them worked to get this she-wolf of a cat out of the tree, they’ve remained somewhat civil.  

Even though Derek’s a part of the hell beasts known as the Sheriff’s department.  The same guys that retired his dad early, and wouldn’t accept him into their ranks.  Stiles had go and be a fireman.  A decision Stiles will never regret, but it’s the principle of the thing.

The feud is real, and stretches generations, although Stiles can admit he’s been flaming the fire for the past few years.  He’s bitter, okay? 

Derek gets down on one knee in front of the girl, his badge glinting in the sun, hazel eyes shimmering, or something…  Stiles is surprised he hasn’t pulled a doughnut from god knows where to offer her, haha, get it?   _Doughnut_ , because Derek’s a cop.  Shut up, Stiles is hilarious.

“Lieutenant Stiles is amazing and funny,”  Derek tells the girl seriously, which what?  Derek thinks he’s amazing?  When did that happen?  “But he doesn’t feel the same way I do, so unfortunately we won’t be getting married.”

Hold up.  Wait just one gosh diddly darn moment here.  Derek _feels_ things for him?  When did that happen?  Stiles would remember if Deputy Hot Stuff over there confessed his undying love.  Stiles would think that would be pretty unforgettable.

“No wedding then?”  The girl sulks, but at least Beelzebub, the demon cat, seems to be comforting her, purring and patting at her with it’s feet

“No, I’m-”

“Wait one second there!”  Stiles steps forward.  “He hasn’t even proposed to me yet how can he say I let him down if he hasn’t even told me his intentions!”  Stiles tells the girl, and she gasps, her hand over her mouth like that’s the most scandalous thing she’s ever heard.

“Mr. Derek,”  she says seriously, “You gotta tell him how you feel.”

“Yeah,”  Stiles nods his head rapidly.  “You gotta.”

Derek frowns at Stiles before shifting over so instead of leaning in front of the girl, he’s leaning in front of Stiles.  He clears his throat, and Stiles gasps dramatically.  “Is this what I think it is?”

“Stiles, we’ve known each other for years now,”  Derek starts, “The first time I met you, was my first day on the job, you burst through the doors yelling that you were going to kill the Sheriff.  It was only after I tackled you to the ground and found myself covered in crushed potato chips, my colleagues laughing their asses off, that I knew you were the rumoured son so intent on policing his father’s diet.”

Stiles wipes a fake tear out of the corner of his eye.  “Those were some good times.”

“A few weeks after I fell in love with you, you cellophane wrapped my car, and I didn’t give a single damn.”

“I’d say you gave quite a bit of a damn, considering you chased me around the station like a mad man.” 

Derek shakes his head, “Details.”  Meeting Stiles’ eye, a twinkle contained within, he continues  “But anyway, I think you’re smart, funny, and a general pain in my butt, but I enjoy being around you, and,”  Derek pulls a set of handcuffs from his utility belt, “will you marry me?”

“Yes!”  The girl shrills, grabbing the handcuffs from Derek’s hand and draping them over Stiles’ ring finger.  “He will marry you!”  They barely fit and hang on by a thread, but the situation is so surreal anyway, what’s one more thing to add to it?

If someone told him that today he’d be proposed to today by Derek Hale for the viewing pleasure of a little girl, he would laugh in that person’s face.  And yet, here he is.

“Now, kiss.”  The girl tugs on Stiles arm until he gets to his feet.  Derek grabs at him and dips him down low, leaning in to press a soft kiss to his nose, before righting him again.

“So,”  Stiles says after the girl has wandered away with her witch cat, satisfied finally, he leans against the side of Derek’s patrol car, “Now that we’re fiancés when are you going to take me on our first date?”

Derek snorts, “I’ll pick you up at seven, wear something nice.”

Stiles throws the cuffs at Derek’s head.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt sent by nicoeatsbooks:
> 
> My dad noticed you got, like, two unhealthy things at the grocery store so now he won’t stop sending me over with leftovers?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so my mind took a different turn on this than probably expected, so now you have alive and human Hale family, and teenager!Derek

Derek nervously rings the doorbell, clutching the tupperware container tight to his chest.  

His family had tofu lasagna last night, and it was surprising good, considering it’s tofu, and tofu is usually only good in foods of East-Asian origin.  But, his dad’s been on a nutritional rampage the past month, throwing out all the junk food in the house, and only cooking meals guaranteed to contain at least two superfoods.  Derek never wants to see kale again for as long as he shall live. 

His dad has finally upgraded to policing the town’s diet.  Something Derek knew would happen eventually, considering his dad is a pile of happy-go-lucky and just wants the best for everyone.  

This morning he had pulled Derek aside and handed him the lasagna instructing him to take it to the Sheriff’s house because he had seen him buying—and Derek quotes—’a proverbial mountain of death and cholesterol at the supermarket last night.’

Derek’s been doing similar errands all of last week.  It started when his dad had spotted Mrs. Galloway putting white sugar—the horror!—in her coffee, and it finally leads to Derek standing on his crush’s doorstep with a container of lasagna he has no doubt Stiles will throw back in his face.  Stiles’ favourite food is curly fries—don’t ask him how he knows—but why would Stiles want lasagna when he could have curly fries?

“What’s up, dude?”  The door finally opens to Stiles wearing nothing but a pair of batman boxers, a toothbrush in hand, looking like a minty-fresh rabid dog with foam all over his mouth.  

Derek thinks he looks adorable.

“Dude?”  Stiles asks again, leaning against the door jamb while Derek does nothing but gape unattractively.  “You okay?”

Derek thrusts out the container, but ends up going too far, and accidentally jabs Stiles in the stomach.  Stiles lets out a loud “Oof!” and the toothbrush goes flying and lands—quite inconveniently—on top of Derek’s head, before falling to the grass.

Derek flames redder than the sun, sputtering apologies, hands flying everywhere, from Stiles’ bare stomach—which he tries not to focus on—to the toothbrush which he grabs out of the grass, trying to pick off most of the dirt, to no avail.

“Oh man,”  Stiles laughs abruptly, clutching at his belly and throwing his head back, hitting it against the door, but he’s chuckling so hard he doesn’t seem to notice.  “You look a mess.”

Derek hangs his head, “I’m sorry.”

Stiles waves his hand.  “Don’t worry about it.”  He grabs the lasagna, before taking Derek by the hand and towing him inside.  “Better wash your hair before the toothpaste dries, though.”  

“But…”

“ _Nah, ah_.”  Stiles waggles his finger, and shoves Derek into a bathroom, shutting the door behind him.

A few minutes later with a head full of wet hair, he leaves the bathroom to look for Stiles.  He finds him sitting on the kitchen counter, the container of lasagna on his lap, fork in hand, shoveling food in his mouth like a hungry hippo.

“Shif duf thwis iz goof,”  Stiles tries to say when he catches sight of Derek, pointing to the lasagna.  Stiles swallows, throat bobbing, and Derek’s eyes fix on the sinuous movement, before blinking away when he hears Stiles saying something else.  “Did you make it?”

Derek shakes his head. “My dad did.”

“It’s good,”  Stiles states assuredly, eyes narrowing slyly, “You should invite me over for dinner at your house one day.”

Derek nods his head, yes, eyes wide, even though that was not how he imagined Stiles meeting his family.

“As your date, though, cause you’re real cute and your eyes are pretty.”  Stiles winks and licks the corner of his mouth where a little bit of sauce sits.

Okay, so,  _that’s_ how he imagined Stiles meeting his family.  


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt sent by loveactually-rps:
> 
> Hi, for the prompt, can you please write - bodyguard (Derek) gets sent flying by giant, hairy, nearly naked attacker - passes out and client (Stiles) laughs and proceeds to kick the guys ass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I honestly don’t know what happened, but this became a Neckz ‘n’ Throats AU while also being a president’s son!Stiles fic, and there’s also mentions of BDSM? *Shrugs*

Stiles doesn’t need a bodyguard, no matter how much his dad thinks otherwise.  He can take care of himself.  It doesn’t matter that he’s the newly elected president’s step-son, no one has ever tried to kill/kidnap/maim him ever before, (okay, so maybe Jackson tried with the maiming, but that stopped after graduation.)

In the end, he’s right on the one account, very wrong on the other, because Stiles has _fanboys_.  Like run after the Town car, screaming their heads off, tearing out their hair, trying to just get a _look_ at him, fanboys.

And Stiles is not talking young teenagers, which he could understand considering he is a healthy twenty-five year old man with impeccable hair—and because of Lydia—amazing style.   _No_ , his fanboys are usually men, in their thirties to forties, typically big, and quite often hairy as all heck.  

Stiles is pretty sure how he started attracting that specific demographic, and it probably has to do with the skin mags he used to pose for in college, long before his dad married Melissa and she became president.

What were they called?  Something along the lines of Neckz ‘n’ Twinks, or maybe Bearz ‘n’ Throats.  Oh well.  All he knows is that the White House publicist starts foaming at the mouth with rage whenever he goes anywhere near her.  He’s starting to think she really doesn’t like him.

As it is, the aforementioned bodyguard hired by his dad is pretty much useless, if not nice to look at.  And, _boy_ , is he nice to look at.  All hazel eyes and gloomy looks, Derek Hale is a _fox_ in a suit.  Stiles gets the vapours anytime he comes near, and since he’s around Stiles pretty much 24/7, Stiles has practically become a Victorian lady, with the fainting and the hankies, _goddamn_ , so many hankies.

He’s at a convention in Portland when all hell finally breaks loose and a big hairy guy wearing a speedo with his face on it—which creeps Stiles out a tad too much—manages to push past all the secret service dudes and pounces.

Derek shields him with his body, but he’s no match for the raw power that is creepy speedo guy, and he’s flung to the side, landing on a pile of spectators—ouchie—knocked out cold.

Stiles might say many bad things about Derek, but no one messes with _his_ staff like that.  

The guy approaches uncapped sharpie in hand, one of Stiles’ old skin mags in the other, practically salivating at the mouth, and Stiles holds up one hand, right in the guy’s face.

“Stop.”

The guy stops.

“That wasn’t very nice,”  Stiles scolds.

The guy blinks.

“You hurt a lot of people.”  Stiles gestures around him.  “Violence, is never the answer, dude.  It’s messy and everyone ends up hurt.  Most of all you, cause you must be crazy if you think I’m giving you my autograph now.”

The guy whimpers.

“Go help my secret agent man up.”  Stiles points to Derek and the guy goes and does his bidding, helping a very groggy looking Derek to his feet.  “You good, Der?”  Stiles asks, worried, and Derek gives him a thumbs up, but Stiles sure as heck doesn’t trust him to not not keep working even with a concussion.

He turns to Parrish.  “Check and see if the idiot is really okay, and you.”  He points to speedo guy.  “Apologize to all these people.”

After a long, heartfelt apology, hotel security finally escorts speedo guy out.  Stiles is ushered up to the room in a sea of black suits, just in case some other fanboy shows up out of nowhere.

Derek’s sitting on the bed, ice-pack to his forehead, when Stiles goes to join him, clapping him on the back.  “How’s the bump?”

“Just dandy,”  Derek mutters.

“Don’t be too hard on yourself.”  Stiles reassures him.  “It could have happened to anyone.”

“If the guy hadn’t listened to you…”  Derek trails off.

“But he did.”

“If he didn’t, though.”

“Did I ever tell you about the types of skin mags I used to pose for?”  

Derek shakes his head.  

“BDSM,”  Derek stares at him, mouth gaping.  “Why do you think Melissa’s publicist wants my head on a platter?   _Everyone_ in politicshas been involved in a sex scandal, Derek.  But not everyone has posed for photographs sitting on top of big dudes in latex suits with a whip in hand.”

Derek mouth opens and shuts a few times, and Stiles shrugs.

“Do you still do it?”

Out of all the things Stiles expected Derek to say, he never thought that would leave his lips.

“Why?  You interested?”

Derek’s face floods with blood, and Stiles grins.  Oh yeah, he’s interested.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt sent by benaya-trash:
> 
> prompt! if ye still want any that is: Derek and Stiles stuck in the rain under the same tree and discuss which cake tastes the best, Derek goes with sponge cream and strawberries stiles goes with funfetti.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I nearly choked on a piece of funfetti once. 
> 
> But anyways, I wrote them stuck in a tree in the rain, instead of under, and added some danger of the omg we’re gonna die variety, hope you don’t mind!

“Now is not the time for cake, Stiles!  There’s a barghest intent on tearing our throats out and you want to argue the benefits of funfetti?”  Derek exclaims just as another set of scratching and growling comes from the base of the tree they’re stuck in—the glowing green dog-like creature at the bottom, showing off it’s very impressive teeth.

So far, this has not been a very good day for Derek.  

He knew, the moment he woke up and stubbed his toe against his dresser, that the universe would find some way of throwing yet another wrench in the works.

So of course, when he and Stiles were out in the preserve investigating a series of suspicious animal attacks, the source of the maulings themselves showed up and attacked.  Before they even knew it, Derek had climbed up a tall tree, hauling Stiles after him.  There was just no way he was attempting to take on the barghest with Stiles at his side.

Just the thought of the creature defeating him and killing Stiles, makes his heart freeze in his chest.

Stiles scrubs a hand though his hair, visibly frustrated.  “I’m trying not to think about the thing nipping at our heels, okay?  So I’d appreciate it if you’d just answer my question!”  The tree shakes with the power of the barghest butting it with a large, disfigured head.  There are glowing green worms in its rotten eye sockets, and Derek’s solely tempted to empty his lunch.

“Fine!  No, I think funfetti is an insult to everything that is cake, it’s awful and tastes like plastic.  And the sprinkles get caught in my teeth!”

Stiles gasps dramatically, before hissing, “You didn’t just say that.”

Derek huffs.  “Oh yeah, what are you gonna do about it?”  The tree shakes one more time, and he has to reach out to grab a branch, lest he fall out and find himself the snack of a very hungry barghest.

Stiles reaches out and pinches Derek on the bicep.  “Take it back.”  

Derek swats at Stiles, barely hitting him.  “Never!”

“Oh yeah, Mr. Know-it-all, then what’s the best kind of cake?”

“Sponge cream and strawberries, because I actually have taste, unlike _some_ people.”  Derek narrows his eyes, making sure Stiles knows exactly who he’s talking about.

A horrible creaking comes from the base of the tree, and Derek hopes that isn’t the wood warning them that the tree’s about to go down.  He doesn’t want to die having a stupid argument about _cake_ with Stiles.  He’d rather not die at all, or at least, he’d prefer to go with his arms wrapped tight around Stiles.

“Fuck it!”  Stiles exclaims, grabbing Derek by the front of the shirt, and pulling him into a searing kiss.  Derek startles, before quickly getting with the program, kissing Stiles back viciously.  Stiles’ hair feels like silk beneath Derek’s fingers as he combs them through, taking kiss after kiss from Stiles’ lips.  Stiles grips desperately at Derek’s clothing and just seems to hang on for the ride.

“Are you guys done?”  

Stiles startles at the sound of Kira’s voice, jerking backwards.  He windmills his arms and nearly falls out of the tree, before Derek grabs at him.  

Derek’s never been happier to see Kira.  All that remains of the barghest is a pile of bright green goo seeping into the ground and dripping off her sharp katana.  

After Kira helps them down from the tree, Stiles throws his arm over Derek’s shoulder.  “Sooo, I never knew you felt so strongly about funfetti?”

“ _Urg_.”  Derek makes a face of repugnant disgust.

“I’m the funfetti, Derek.”  Stiles grins like the little shit he is.

“Shut up.” Derek pushes him away, marching off after Kira. 

“I know you want it, just admit it.”  Stiles cups his hands over his mouth, calling after Derek.

He will do no such thing, even though it is very true.  He wants Stiles, funfetti and all.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt sent by petalvelvet:
> 
> http://kelslk.tumblr.com/post/148858828853/spock-fist-me-kirk-i-what-the-fuck-spockholds –even though it’s about kirk/spock it reminds me of sterek so much

“Ground control to Major Hale,”  Stiles’ familiar voice crackles through the coms.

Derek doesn’t even pause in his drilling, recognizing the playful hint in Stiles’ tone.  "Yes, Stiles, I took my protein pills this morning.“

"But is your helmet on?”

Derek rolls his eyes.  "I’m not dead, am I?“

Stiles chuckles.  "Ooo, so snarky.”

“What do you want, Stiles?  I’m busy,”  Derek says emphatically.  

The company landed on the nickle rich asteroid AP-384 a week ago, and Derek has been out on the surface every single day, drilling away and harvesting much needed materials to keep human colonies afloat.    

“Oh yeah,”  Stiles moans rather pornographically, “Drill that asteroid.”

Derek blushes, sputtering unattractively.  If he wasn’t magnetically attached to the asteroid, he thinks the combined power of all the innuendos Stiles lays on him while working would have sent him blasting off into the emptiness of space a long time ago.

Derek met Stiles eight years ago when he had just joined the company, fresh out of college.  Back then Derek was a lonely, sullen brat.  With his family just scraping by on Earth, he was forced to head to space—far away from everyone he loved, in unfamiliar territory.  Jobs are nigh impossible to find on the overpopulated homeworld, but space is massive, and there is never a shortage.

He met Stiles his first day, lined up with a group of other grumpy cadets, all of them—including Derek—looking vaguely sick from the lack of gravity.

Stiles was the teenage son of their training officer.  He had followed John around, grinning slyly at all the new recruits, handing out uniforms and other necessities.  He had winked at Derek, then laid on him—in all seriousness—a terrible Uranus pick up line, to Derek’s incredulity.  Back then, Stiles was a flirty little shit, something he never grew out of.

For years, Derek was able to ignore Stiles’ half-assed attempts at flirting.  First because of his age, then because his father was Derek’s superior office.  But after John retired, and Derek was promoted, all of his excuses evaporated into thin air.

Suddenly he found nothing stopping him from finally asking Stiles out on a date, except for one small detail.

Stiles flirts and flirts and the only reason Derek doesn’t grab him by the lapels of his jumpsuit, push him up against the wall, and try to kiss the sarcasm out of him, is because he’s pretty damned sure Stiles is just messing with him.

And it sucks, because Derek is crazy amounts of in love with him.

Later, in mess, Stiles grabs the seat beside him, and Derek frowns down into his food, picking at the globs of green and blue mush on his tray.

“What’s got your panties in a twist?”  Stiles shoulders him gently, beautiful grin stretched across his pale, mole-spotted face.  God, Derek is so in love with him.  

“Nothing,”  he grumbles.

“Deeeerek, I can tell when you’re lying to me.  It can’t be because you got the highest yield today,”  Stiles sing songs.  “Congratulations are in order.  C’mon, fist me.”

“I— What—? The fuck?”  Derek turns to Stiles, only to see him holding up his fist for a bump, a shit-eating grin on his face.

And that right there, ladies and gentlemen, is the straw that broke the camel’s back.  

Derek snaps.  “You know what, _no_ , I will not fist you,”  Derek whispers harshly because Stiles _has_ to know what he’s doing to Derek.  It’s cruel and unusual and he doesn’t fucking deserve it.  “You’re such a dick, jesus fucking christ, I don’t even know what I love you so much.”   

Stiles opens and shuts his mouth a few times before blurting out, somewhat hysterically, “You love me?!”  

A whole bunch of people turn to glare at them, so Derek clamps his hand over Stiles’ mouth.  “As if you didn’t already know,”  he spits, only for Stiles to lick his palm, forcing him to pull his hand away, disgusted.

“I most definitely didn’t know, and if I did, I would have done this months ago,”  Stiles leans forwards and just _plants_ his mouth on top of Derek, with no finesse whatsoever, only pulling away to say, “I’ve been in love with you for years, you crazy idiot _, god,_ kiss me back, goddammit.”

Derek doesn’t care that everyone in mess is staring at them, he dips Stiles low, and kisses all the sarcasm out of him.

“You must be a star— _ooooo fuck_ —cause you’re outta this world.”

Or at least some of it.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt sent by greyhoundsgirl:
> 
> For your prompt requests, only if you like it, of course! I love Derek and the Sheriff being friends, so what if Stiles starts getting jealous cos suddenly Derek is really busy all the time and Stiles assumes he's dating someone, but he's been helping John out?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh yessss, Oblivious!Stiles, Jealous!Stiles, and BestBros!Sheriff&Derek, everything I could ever want

“Whatcha’ gonna do with all that junk? All that junk inside your trunk?”  Stiles jokes, sweat pouring down his face.  Jeez, it’s hot.

“None of your business, Stiles,”  Derek says quite irritably, slamming the Camaro’s trunk shut—hiding what looks to be _fishing rods_ , of all things—after pulling out a toolbox.  “Don’t you have anything better to do than bother me?”

“Nope,”  Stiles pops his lips, throwing a grape at Derek’s head from the porch step he’s sitting on.  It bounces off its intended target, rolling into the long grass, and Stiles says, “It’s summer break, remember?”

The air conditioner’s broken and it’s at least a thousand degrees inside the house.  Buuut, there’s a slight breeze outside, and Stiles is trying to milk it for all it’s worth.

“Yes, I remember.”  Derek walks up the steps, toolbox in hand.  He nudges Stiles to the side as he goes to open the front door.  Curious about why Derek’s at his house, Stiles gets up and trails after him.

“Then where have you been?  Allison had a barbecue last week, and you never showed up.”

Derek places his toolbox on Stiles’ kitchen table.  “I was out of town.”

“Doing what?”  Stiles asks as Derek starts pulling wrenches and screw drivers from his fancy looking toolbox.  “And what the hell are you doing?”

“Stuff,”  Derek says, and sarcastically, “What does it look like I’m doing?”

Stiles folds his arms over his chest.  “Uh, making a mess of my kitchen table?”

“Go away, Stiles,”  Derek mutters, not bothering to even look up from what he’s doing.

Frustrated, Stiles throws his hands up in the air.  “Fine!”  He marches off to sit on the sofa, instead of heading outside again, muttering under his breath about poor conversationalist werewolves.   _What_? He’s worried Derek might hurt himself with his own tools.  He’s seen his dad hammer his own finger instead of a nail too many times to count.  A handyman, his dad is not.

Stiles pouts, sinking further into the cushions.  Derek’s been pretty much MIA this summer, and it sucks because Stiles hardly ever gets to see him during the school year at Berkeley.  He just wishes Derek would _try_ to make an effort to hang with Stiles.  At least so Stiles could justify the huge, honking crush he’s been nursing for Derek since senior year.

He thought they were friends, but apparently Derek’s found some other friends to spend all his time with.

Stiles may be many things, but stupid ain’t one of them.  When he’s at Berkeley, and they’re in the middle of a Skype call, Derek sometimes gets texts from random strangers.  Stiles knows it’s not anyone in the pack.  They know not to come between Stiles and Derek and the few times a week Derek thinks about him enough to give him a call.

It _has_ to be a stranger.  A stranger who knows Derek well enough that their texts bring an adorably shy smile to his lips and a slight flush to his cheeks.  Jesus, Stiles can’t even hate this other person properly.  Anyone who makes Derek smile like that is good in his books.

It doesn’t stop Stiles from being jealous as all heck.

He turns on the TV, and sulks.  

After some time, the front door opens and his dad enters, throwing his keys in the bowl by the front door.  Stiles is just about to get up to greet him when he calls out, “Derek, you still here.”

Stiles’ freezes, eyes wide, as Derek peeks his head out of the kitchen, a smear of what looks to be grease on his face, and says, “Yeah, just about done repairing the A.C.”  His dad walks over to Derek and claps him on the shoulder, causing Stiles’ eyes to bug out of his head.  What kind of bizzaro hell dimension is this?  “There was a problem with the coils, but I got it fixed up just fine,”  Derek says, scrubbing a hand through his hair.

“Thanks, son,”  his dad says, “Did you eat lunch?”  Derek shakes his head, and his dad frowns, turning to Stiles with a displeased look on his face.  “Stiles, why didn’t you feed Derek?  I know it’s summer, but that doesn’t mean you have to be rude.”

Stiles blinks, “I didn’t know feeding Derek was something we did in this house?”  His dad purses his lips, and Stiles continues in a very quiet voice, “I’m feeling very confused right about now.”

His dad rolls his eyes, turning back to Derek, “I’m sorry my son’s a lazy, impolite ass.”

“Hey!”  Stiles protests, just as Derek throws his head back and laughs.  Like full on belly shaking, world changing, unicorns are falling out of his mouth, laughter.  Stiles is feeling so attacked right now.

Derek looks at him, an actual smile on his face, and says, “It’s just one of his charms, I guess.”

_So attacked._

His dad gets this _look_ in his eye, and glances between the two of them in a way that could only be described as snake-like.  “You know that _thing_ we discussed on our weekly fishing trips, Derek?  And that I keep texting you about, but you just blush and smile like an idiot?  Well, you might want to talk to Stiles about it.”  His dad smirks and walks towards the front door, grabbing his keys.  He leaves the house with a wave, and a, “I expect to see you at Saturday dinners from now on, Derek!”

Stiles frowns.  Saturday dinners?  The last time Stiles had a girlfriend, his dad demanded that she show up for Saturday dinners.  Stiles looks to Derek, expecting to see the same amount of confusion on his face.  Instead, what he gets is Derek gazing up at the ceiling, as if praying for divine interference, with his face the colour of a ripe tomato.

Ohhhhh, _Saturday dinners_.

Stiles giggles.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt sent by trenonny:
> 
> One is a street hustler who specializes in three card monty and/or pickpocketing. The other is the person who ALWAYS somehow sees sees through the card swapping or catches them in the process of stealing - but never turns them in. Intrigue and interest ensue?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I only know of the three card monte trick because of Leverage, so this became a sorta Parker!Stiles, Sophie!Derek, and Hardison!Lydia thing (knowing of the show is not necessary to understanding this)

Stiles takes great pleasure in swindling businessmen of all their money.  

Some people call him a hustler—often right after throwing the contents of their wallet at him and storming off—some say he’s an outright thief.  But Stiles doesn’t force people to give him their money, he doesn’t pick pockets (well, anymore), he’s just very smart about what he does.

Lets just say he’s his own kind of businessman.  The people swarm to him, willingly, and he graciously takes them for all the cash they’ve got on them.

Right now, a crowd’s gathered, attracted by his best friend—and inside woman extraordinaire—Lydia, loosing terribly at the Three-card Monte.  

Stiles throws the cards around the table, and the crowd easily follows the queen of hearts around, while Lydia pretends to fumble, and obviously picks the wrong card, to the muttering of the businessmen gathered around her.  A few of them snort, and brag that they could do a much better job.   _Hook, line, and sinker_.

Lydia winks at Stiles, and dumps a wad of cash on his upturned milk crate, before flouncing off.  The businessmen eye it up like it’s easily attainable manna from heaven, before pushing at each other, eager for a turn.

Stiles looks around the crowd for the richest, cockiest looking man.  Instead he spots, out of the corner of his eye, an atypically dressed guy.  The guy is downright gorgeous—all big hazel eyes, dark scruff, and muscles draped in coveralls, a baseball hat with the logo of a local museum, balanced on his head—his name tag declares him Miguel.  

He’s not Stiles’ usual spectator.  Miguel’s standing off to the side, a sly grin on his lips, almost like he _knows,_ but since he isn’t giving the game up, Stiles lets him be.  

He licks his lips.  Miguel is a tall drink of water, but Stiles has a job to do.  He turns back to his game, and picks a man in a Hugo Boss suit, waving around his wallet like an idiot.

Unsurprisingly, twenty minutes and a few businessmen later, Stiles is counting out a few hundred dollar bills, and the hot guy in coveralls seems to have disappeared into the crowd.  Too bad, Stiles wouldn’t have minded his number.

***

Lydia sips a glass of wine, while typing away at her laptop.  She’s probably sifting through some poor billionaire’s Swiss Bank accounts for all Stiles knows.  Lydia’s brilliant like that.

“Did you hear about the heist yesterday?  It was all over the news.”  Lydia asks.

Stiles rolls out of the one-handed tree pose he was in, and sits on his yoga mat, folding his legs into lotus, wordlessly giving Lydia permission to continue.

“Whoever did it, got their hands on a few Lucian Freuds and a Francis Bacon.”

Stiles whistles lowly, back-bending into head-to-foot pose, “Damn, I wish I did it first.”  

For one second he thinks about Miguel, wondering if...well, it’s certainly possible.  Miguel had that look in his eye, a look Stiles sees every morning in the mirror.  But it’s not like Stiles will ever know for sure.  If Miguel did do it, he’s probably gone so far underground, Stiles will never see him again.

Stiles closes his eyes, and drifts off to sleep, his toes tickling his forehead, Lydia typing away in the background.

***

A few weeks later Stiles is on the boardwalk—performing card tricks for wide-eyed children, an empty hat in front of him, collecting donations from amused parents—when he spots Miguel in the crowd.  This time he’s wearing swim shorts, crocs, and a ghastly Hawaiian shirt, that surprisingly blends in.

Miguel walks closer, his eyes locking with Stiles’, twinkling in amusement.  Winking, he drops a cool hundred in Stiles’ hat before slipping back into the crowd.

_Damn_.  Stiles thinks he might be a little bit in love.

***

Stiles is crawling though an air duct, a Cartier pearl necklace, draped around his neck, when he sees Miguel next.

Stiles intended to gift the necklace and matching set of earrings to Lydia for her birthday, but when he finally broke into the jewelry store vault, he found the safe where the earrings were supposed to be, empty.

At first he thought they were taken out for restoration purposes.  It’s only when he’s rappelling off the side of the mall’s roof, that he notices a very familiar figure dressed in a rent-a-cop uniform, casually sitting on a bench across the street.

He waves when Stiles sees him, and his heart skips a beat.  

When Stiles finally makes it down to the bench, Miguel’s gone, but in his place sits a small cloth bag containing the earrings, along with a note that simply reads, 

_I’m sure she’ll adore them, because they’re from you._  
Yours truly,  
Derek.

So, Miguel’s not actually Miguel, but Derek.  

Stiles whispers the name out loud and thinks that yeah, it does suit the hazel-eyed man he keeps seeing wherever he goes.

*** 

The game of cat and mouse continues for a few more months, until one day, a guard comes back from break a few minutes early, and Stiles finds himself in an alleyway a few blocks away, sirens blaring in the distance.  He’s dragging along a useless leg, blood pouring from a nick in the side where the guard _shot_ him, just about to pass out from blood loss.

This is not how he imagined getting caught.  He always thought he would go out in a blaze of glory, not because some two-bit rent-a-cop caught him off guard.

His vision swims, and he trips over nothing, falling onto his side.  Stiles groans in agony, but just before he passes out, a pair of finely shined oxfords step into view.

And then everything goes black.

***

Stiles wakes to a painting of a unidentifiable blob of a figure lying on a bed, surrounded by a pink background, and overlaid by a solitary naked light bulb.  Stiles recognizes it as the Bacon that was stolen months back.  The painting stolen by Derek.

Stiles shoots up, only to groan when his movements pulls at the stitches on his thigh.  He’s lying on black satin sheets in a bed that looks like it’s way too large to only be for one person.

He looks around the opulently decorated room, eyes finally landing on the solitary figure sleeping beside a smouldering fireplace.   _Derek_.

Stiles’ heart catches in his throat at the sight of the man that’s been teasing him for months, and who just saved his life.  His lashes lie like feathers on his cheekbones, casting shadows along his face.  He has bags under his eyes.  Did he not sleep well last night, because of Stiles?

“Derek?”  Stiles calls out lightly, and the man himself blinks sleepy, hazel eyes open, confused for a second until they settle on Stiles.  A slow smile slips onto his face as he rises from the chair and approaches.

“Hey,” he sits on the bed beside Stiles, “How are you feeling?”

Stiles snorts, “Like I was shot.”

Derek smirks.  “You were shot.”

Stiles sighs heavily.  “Lydia is going to kill me.”

Derek leans closer, whispering conspiratorially, “I’m sure I can convince her otherwise, I pretty good at getting people to do the things I want.”

“Yeah?”  Stiles breathes, eyes falling to Derek’s lips.  “How good?”

“I got you to fall for me, didn’t I?”

Stiles quirks a brow, “Oh buddy, my pal, my friend, you just got played.”

Derek chuckles.  “Is that so?”

“Yup,”  Stiles pops his lips, reaching out and running a finger along the side of Derek’s gorgeous face,  “See, that was _my_ intention all along.  You fell for the oldest trick in the book.”

“Can’t say I’m feeling too down about it,”  Derek says, capturing Stiles’ hand in his, before leaning forward and kissing the holy hell out of him.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt sent by stiles-and-the-sourwolf:
> 
> *hugs* Stiles shows up at Derek’s door injured in the middle of the night. Derek hides his concern beneath a mask of broody eyebrows and takes care of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oooo hurt!Stiles and caring!Derek, yessss. And also, I’m sorry, but this got real angsty.

Lightning streaks across the sky, flashing bright through the loft window, bathing the room in light.  It gives away to rain, beating against the glass.  Derek pours over the old books lying on the table in front of him.  He pulled them from his family vault a week ago, musty and covered in a fine layer of dust.  

He was hoping to find some clue as to what creature-of-the-week they’re up against this time around.  Although, Derek wouldn’t be surprised if the drowned bodies turning up at the lake were victims of yet another kelpie, albeit one that likes to chew on its victims a bit, before dragging them to the bottom.

Thunder cracks and the lamp beside him flickers, then goes out.  

Typical.  He’s been meaning to fix the shoddy wiring, but Derek hasn’t had a lot of time on his hands.  Between taking care of a couple of high school seniors, and trying to save the town from being swallowed by the hellmouth that is the Nemeton, he’s has a pretty busy schedule.

Derek sighs tiredly.  Getting up, he moves to fetch the supplies from under the sink.

  Stiles keeps a few expensive red candles he uses for spells at Derek’s place.  Derek’s not supposed to touch them, but he figures he could just buy replacements without Stiles noticing. 

Derek lights the final candle when something—or someone—bangs on the door.   _Loud_.  It echos through the empty loft, and Derek frowns in confusion.  The rain thunders against the glass, so he can’t hear any heartbeat, and for one horrible second, fear slides down his spine, prickling his skin and making his hair stand on end. 

But then the scent of Stiles, and _blood_ , and _pain_ wafts over, and Derek’s at the door instantly.  He pulls it open to find Stiles lying in a wet heap at the bottom.  His gaze is hazy as he blinks up at Derek, a shallow cut across his forehead, blood trickling slowly down his cheek.  He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes, swaying slightly when he sees Derek.

Something about the emptiness behind the smile makes him worry.

“Stiles.”  Derek crouches in front of him.  “What happened to you?”  Reaching out, he checks for other injuries.  

There are bleeding scrapes on his wrists, almost like he was dragged along some gravel—but otherwise, everything else from bruises around his neck, to a split lip and his bleeding brow, are superficial.

“Heyyy, Derek,”  Stiles slurs, blinking his big, doe eyes.

Derek purses his lips, but doesn’t say anything in return, simply lifts Stiles’ arm around his neck and helps him limp inside.  

He deposits Stiles on the couch, and reaches for a plaid flannel Stiles picked out a few weeks ago at Ikea, and wraps it around his shoulders.  He’ll have to get Stiles out of the wet clothes, but Derek doesn’t want him to freeze in the meantime.

He climbs up the stairs to his bedroom, and grabs a pair of sweatpants and a sweater.  He throws them at Stiles and gruffly orders him to put them on.  Surprisingly, Stiles listens without a word of complaint, and that wordless acquiesce just worries Derek more.  Something other than the physical is hurting Stiles.

Derek returns with an unopened first aid kit, and a towel he promptly drapes over Stiles’ head.  His wet hair is dripping everywhere.  

Derek gets to work, cleaning the plenitude of cuts, picking out gravel carefully.  Humans develop infections oh so easily, and he wants to make sure he does a good job.

“Are those my candles?”  Stiles asks, flinging away the now sodden towel, “If I knew you were into the gothic romance genre, I would have bought you some dollar store ones.  These.”  Stiles gestures around the room.  “Cost fifty bucks a pop, and have dragon blood in them, Derek. _Dragon blood_.  Do you know how rare that is?”

“Power’s out,”  Derek grunts.

“I figured,”  Stiles grumbles, hissing when Derek dabs peroxide on his wounds.

They sit in an uncomfortable silence, Derek itching to ask, but afraid of what Stiles would say in answer.  If he would lie, and Derek would be able to hear the skip in his heartbeat, or if he would tell the truth—that it was Derek’s fault.  

It’s always his fault that his pack keeps getting hurt.  They’re teenagers, and he keeps putting them in bad situations, and they keep getting injured.  He hates seeing it happen, and he hates that every single bad decision he’s made in his life has lead to this moment now.  Stiles bleeding on his sofa.

“Hey.”  He feels a cold hand touch his forehead, bringing him out of his thoughts.  “What are you thinking so hard about?”  Derek shakes his head, but before he can pull away, Stiles grabs him by the cheek and tugs him closer.  “Talk to me,”  he insists.

“Why don’t you talk to me?”  Derek asks abruptly.  Stiles’ expression goes guarded, and he moves to drop his hand from Derek’s face, but Derek presses his hand to Stiles’, holding him there.  “Something’s bothering you.”

Stiles slumps over, tearing his eyes away from Derek’s.  A glinting trail of wetness slides down his cheek, but he quickly wipes it away.

“It appeared in her form,”  Stiles whispers so lowly—if it wasn’t for Derek’s supernatural hearing, he wouldn’t have caught it.  “My mom’s.”

“The kelpie?”  Derek hazards a guess, and Stiles nods his head.

“When I saw her, I thought I had died and gone to heaven,”  Stiles chuckles humorlessly, “She took me by the hand—wearing the gown she used to love, the one we buried her in—pulling me to the water.  She used to take me swimming at the lake when I was a kid.  With my little batman floaties, she would pretend to be Alfred, and of course I’d be Batman.”  Stiles dashes away another tear.

“How’d you get away?”  Derek asks, afraid of knowing the answer.

Stiles snorts wetly.  “I didn’t.  Chris Argent and his band of merry hunters showed up and blasted her full of holes.  I had to watch her die, again.”  Stiles tugs his hand away, and this time Derek lets him go.

“Stiles, I’m so sorry.”

“Yeah, no, It’s okay.  It’s not like it was really my mom, it was just an illusion.”

Derek shakes his head.  “No, it it was real to you.  I’m sorry that you had to feel that pain again.   _You_ , of all people, don’t deserve that.”

Stiles sniffs, reaching out for Derek’s hand, he squeezes it.  “Thanks, Derek.”  


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt sent by fruit-of-my-hoechloins:
> 
> Since my birthday is tomorrow and you were asking for prompts, how about Derek planning a surprise birthday party for Stiles? Thank you :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And it all goes disastrously right/wrong? Of course! And also ~happy, happy birthday to you~ (also, office!AU and HighOnLove!Derek)

Derek lays the packet of balloons on the conveyor belt, glaring at it with vengeance.  According to the label, they’re powder blue—which Derek thinks is mighty sexist—and have delightfully cute writing on them, proclaiming that whatever “it” is, is a boy!

“Congratulations,”  the older lady standing behind him in line says, as the cashier rings up the balloons.  “Is it for a family member?”

Derek grunts noncommittally, handing a five dollar bill to the cashier. “My boyfriend.”

The lady’s eyes bug out of her head, and a myriad of emotions run across her face, from confusion to realisation.  “Are you using them to come out?  Because, young man, out of respect for your boyfriend, you should use a little more finesse.”

Derek blushes up to his ears, imagining just what his family would have done if he had shown up with Stiles on one arm, a whole bunch of balloons declaring “It’s a boy!”, on the other.  Laura would have fallen out of her seat from laughing.  

He came out as bi in highschool in a fairly unremarkable way, so there was no need to tell his family he was dating a boy when he started going out with Stiles.  He just had to say he finally started dating Stiles, and he sister was halfway ready to give him a noogie.

As it is, Derek takes his change and shoves the packet of balloons in his pocket, running out of the store as fast as he can.  Faster than little old ladies with strong opinions, that’s for sure.

He climbs into his Camaro, and just sits, collecting himself by resting his head on the steering wheel, trying not to freak out.

Derek knows how much Stiles loves balloons.  At the office party last year, he had dived into a whole pile of them, drunk off his ass, while Derek held his drink.  Derek _knows_ Stiles.  They only started dating a month ago when years of working together and mutual pining culminated in a makeout session so epic, Stiles has beard burn on his face—and thighs—for days.  He wants to impress Stiles, to show him that Derek is the best boyfriend he could possibly have.

It’s not Derek’s fault the store was out of stock of birthday balloons.  Although, it is his fault that he’s been living with his head in the clouds, so drunk off love he completely forgot that today is Stiles’ birthday.

***

He has almost everything ready by the time five’o’clock rolls around.  Derek’s expect Stiles to walk into his apartment any moment now, so he has a cone hat on his head, and a party horn in mouth.  

He had bugged off work in the morning when Lydia reminded him about Stiles’ birthday, and turned his phone off, just in case Finstock called, demanding to know where he was.  It’s been a stressful time, and he doesn’t need Finstock’s special brand of crazy making it worse.

He’s finally duct taped the last balloon to the wall, when Erica walks into Stiles’ apartment.  Derek’s starting to wonder if Stiles has given everyone in the office a key.  She talking on the phone, but when she looks up and notices him, she sends him a glare sharper than a million daggers.

“Don’t worry,” she says into the phone, “I found his stupid ass.  He’s at your apartment.”  She hangs up, and carefully tucks her phone away, before reaching for one of the books on Stiles’ coffee table, flinging it at Derek.  It clips the cone on his head, knocking it off, before falling to the floor in a heap.

“Where the hell have you been?!”  She demands shrilly, only to take a good look around the apartment, evidently reaching her own conclusion.  “Why haven’t you picked up your phone?  You scared the crap out of us.” 

“I’ve been busy,”  Derek says defensively.

“Did you even invite any of Stiles’ friends to this ‘surprise’ party, or are they supposed to be as surprised as he will be when he walks in that door?”

Derek’s eyes widen in realisation.  He forgot the most important part of a surprise party.  He hangs his head in shame.  He’s a terrible boyfriend.  

Erica walks over and claps him on the shoulder.  “C’mon, cheer up.”  She taps a long, manicured nail against her chin.  “Boyd’s waiting for me in the car, so I can get him to come up.  Do you know if Stiles actually likes any of his neighbours?”

“He mentioned that the woman next door always bakes him snickerdoodles?”

“Good.”  Erica pushes him to the door.  “Go get her, and come back quickly.”

Derek hurries over to knock on the neighbour’s door.  It opens to reveal the last person he would have expected.

The woman from the grocery store, with curlers in her hair, and a monogrammed robe proclaiming her ‘Barbara’ leans against the door jamb, an unimpressed look upon her face.  “I’m guessing Stiles ‘is a boy!’?”  

Thankfully, she only teases him a little bit more, but willingly comes over so Erica can artfully balance a cone on top of her curlers—she refused to take them out—sitting on the sofa with a plateful of My Little Pony cake in her lap which she got through subterfuge and liberal use of the ‘I’m an old lady who could croak at any moment, would you really let me die without cake?’ card.

Boyd sits like the most awkward statue ever with his cone hat and party horn, only smiling when Barbara offers him cake, and he politely declines.

Derek turns to Erica.  “Why were you guys so worried?  I take sick days sometimes.”

Erica rolls her eyes.  “Don’t you remember?”  When Derek gives no indication that he remembers whatever she wants him to, she sighs.  “Of course you don’t.  Stiles said that the two of you were supposed to go to Wacky Wings for his birthday.  He called you, but you didn’t pick up, and he was trying all through the day.  Finstock even threatened to fire him if he didn’t put away his phone.”

“Finstock threatens to fire him everyday,”  Derek says numbly.  He can’t believe he forgot about Stiles wanting to check out the new wings pub in town.  How it could have slipped his mind?  He’ll never know.

“Stiles says you might have forgotten cause he was giving you the blowjob of your life at the time,”  she says nonchalantly.

“Erica!”  Derek exclaims.

“Oh no, do tell us more,”  Barbara urges like a horrible enabler.  Suddenly Derek understands clearly when she and Stiles are friends.

“Barbara, stop harassing my boyfriend,”  Stiles says, standing in the doorway, and Derek wonders just how long he was there.  He never even heard him come in.  “And get the hell out of my house, go on, _shoo_.”

“Such a rude, boy.”  Barbara walks by Derek and smacks him on the ass, making him jump a foot in the air, “You could do so much better, call me if you ever wanna take my bug for a spin.”

“Stop being gross.”  Stiles makes shooing motions with his hands, chasing her out of the apartment, before turning to Derek.  “She’s talking about her Volkswagen.”  Stiles shudders.  “She already has a much younger man taking her other bug for a spin.”

Boyd blows the party horn.  Taking it out of his mouth, he says with the most deadpan expression possible, “Happy birthday.”

“Thanks dude, now get out, I need to have a long chat with my idiot of a boyfriend.”

Once everyone’s gone, Stiles sits Derek down on the sofa, turning to him, a frown dipping his beautiful mouth.

“You scared me,”  Stiles begins, “I was seriously worried about you.”  Stiles’ mouth twists in displeasure, and has Derek mentioned how beautiful it is?

“Hey!”  Stiles snaps his fingers in front of Derek’s face.  “I’m up here.”

Derek draws his gaze from Stiles’ mouth, up to his eyes, and has Derek mentioned how wonderful Stiles’ eyes are?

“Unbelievable.”  Stiles rolls his gorgeous brown eyes, and Derek stares at him helplessly, unable to even look away from the gloriousness that is Stiles.  Sometimes, Derek still can’t believe _he_ gets to have him.  He’s been in love with Stiles for years, and it astonishes Derek every single day he wakes up beside him, that Stiles is in love with him too.

“I love you,”  Derek says helplessly, tooting the party horn,  “Happy birthday.”

Stiles sighs, a smile quirking up the corners of his soft, luscious lips.  “Yeah, I love you too, you big goober.”  He pauses.  “Wanna make out?”


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt sent by theredqueensheart:
> 
> Could you do one based off of the song ‘One Call Away’ where something happens where Stiles gets hurt (either physically or emotionally) and all he wants to do is call Derek up and talk to him but he is too scared bc that would be admitting something he isn’t sure he’s ready to face. Then Derek calls Stiles bc he just knows something is up. Pretty please?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve never heard of that song before, but I looked up the lyrics, so here you go!

Derek’s curled up on the couch with a book—the TV playing some random cooking show, providing him with white noise in the background—when his phone rings.  

Weeks ago Stiles programmed songs for each pack member, before they went off to college.  Derek was annoyed at first, but he never actually got around to changing it back to the original ringtone.  He’s used to it now, and sometimes, it’s convenient.  Especially when his hands are busy, or he can’t check who’s calling. 

Stiles’ ringtone plays, so Derek places a charred bookmark within the pages of his book, and picks up the phone with a long suffering, “Stiles.”

There’s nothing but a muted shuffling on the other end, and for one moment Derek thinks Stiles butt dialed him.  He’s just about to hang up when Stiles finally speaks up, his voice shaking ever so slightly, “Hey, Derek, what’s up?”

Derek frowns into the phone.  Something’s wrong with Stiles’s tone.  His voice is off, and his heart is thumping slightly faster than normal.  “What’s wrong?”  Derek asks.

Stiles laughs nervously, and Derek can almost picture him scratching the back of his head—one of Stiles’ many anxious mannerisms.  “Nothing.  I’m fine.”

Derek can hear the lie in his voice.

“I was feeling bored so I thought I’d call you,”  Stiles continues.  Derek hears a light shuffle and snap, like Stiles is walking over leaves and branches.  Now that Derek thinks about it, the sound isn’t echoing at all.  Almost like Stiles is outdoors in the woods.

Derek sits up straight, laying his book to the side.  He reaches for the remote, turning off the TV.  Without the background noise on his side, he clearly hears what’s happening on Stiles’ end.  He can hear the chirping of cicadas, but also the distant thump of a baseline.

Stiles must have just left a party.  Walking home—instead of taking the Jeep—maybe because he had a few too many drinks.  Or, at least Derek hopes that’s what happened.  Derek remembers college parties, especially the ones in freshman year.  So many kids in a room without parental supervision for the first time in their lives.  Things can get rough, and people can get hurt.  

Derek bites his bottom lip.  Just the thought of some asshole jock forcing Stiles to either drink too much, or do some stupid dare to prove himself, makes his fists clench in anger.

“I’m going to go.  I’m home.  I’ll call you later, yeah?”  Stiles speaks up, breaking Derek out of his thoughts, only to promptly hang up the phone.

Did Stiles call him to ‘walk him home’ from across the phone line?  Did he not feel safe enough on his own, and needed Derek to be there with him, just in case?

It’s the _just in case_ that has Derek re-dialing Stiles.  He gets Stiles’ voicemail, so he waits five minutes, then tries again, only to get his voicemail once again.

Derek does the math in his head.  It’s a three hour drive down to Berkeley, but if he speeds, he could probably make in in two and a half.  He grabs his keys and jacket and heads out the door.

Derek calls Stiles every half hour, but he still gets no response.  He tries calling Cora, but gets her voicemail, which starts him worrying about her too, until he remembers that she works the evening shifts at a local fast food joint near the campus.  Her phone’s probably off. 

The highway is quiet, empty, as he drives, the moon shining high overhead, bathing the car’s interior in silver.  His phone sits on his dash while he drives, waiting for the screen to light up, for Stiles’ familiar song to play, but it never does.

Derek pulls into campus housing, and parks in the guest lot.  He’s only been here once, a month ago, when he helped Stiles move in, but he knows exactly where Stiles’ apartment is.  

He quickly scales the side of the building, jumping from handhold to handhold.  He can hear the thump of Stiles’ heart again, slower now, in sleep.  Derek feels a twinge of irritation, knowing that Stiles is well and asleep, while he’s been worried out of his mind.  

He snaps the lock on the window, and climbs inside.  Stiles’ roommate is nowhere to be seen, so he walks up to Stiles’ bed, touching him on the shoulder.  Stiles shoots up in bed, eyes wide and scared, before they adjust, and he sees Derek.  Knowing that it’s Derek and not an intruder, doesn’t make him relax, but at least he doesn’t look frightened anymore.

“What’re you doing here?”  Stiles asks, flopping his hand out to turn on the bedside lamp, his voice husky from sleep.

Derek reaches over and picks up Stiles’ phone, noticing the ringer is off.  He shows the twenty missed calls to Stiles and raises his brows.  At least Stiles has the decency to look embarrassed.

“Why’d you turn it off?”  Derek nudges Stiles over, kicking off his shoes, and  climbing onto the small bed.

Stiles shrugs, leaning back against the headboard, sitting beside Derek.  “Wanted to be alone.”

“You can talk to me, you know.”  Derek rests his hand on top of Stiles’.  “Anytime you want, about _whatever_ you want.  My ears are always open.”

Stiles snorts. “Yeah, that’s why you always tell me to shut up.”

Derek chuckles lowly.  “That’s never stopped you before.”

Stiles rubs a hand across his eyes, discretely trying to wipe away tears.  “I called _you_ , Derek,”  he says so softly, Derek can barely hear it, “I could have called Scott, but I called _you_ instead.”

Derek inhales a surprised breath.  That sentence could have so many meanings behind it, and Derek doesn’t think he’s ready for any of them.  

“You don’t have tell me what happened at the party if you don’t feel comfortable,”  Derek says. 

Stiles nods his head.  “I don’t want to talk about it now, maybe later?”

“That’s totally up to you.  You don’t ever have to tell me, if you don’t want to.”

“Maybe later.”  Stiles sniffs.  “Sit with me?”

Derek folds his hand together with Stiles’, and settles in for a long wait.  “For as long as you want, Stiles, I’ll be here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I left whatever happened to Stiles at the party open to interpretation, make it as angsty as you want.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt sent by comeonmorty (bitchfacesam):
> 
> Any chance I could request a Starfighter webcomic AU? Your sterek in space just makes me gush. Every time you post something new, I am ecstatic. Thank you for writing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I had to look that up, since I’ve never heard of it, and all I can say is soomuchbiteygayspaceporn. I delved into the wiki, but still have no idea what’s going on, so I hope you don’t mind that I just wrote some general Pilot!Stiles and Gunner!Derek.

Stiles casually stretches back in his seat, his hands behind his head.  The star map is laid out in front of him, blinking bright in the dim cabin.

For the last few nights, he’s taken to sleeping in the starfighter instead of his quarters.  Stiles feels much more comfortable among the stars than he does with Hale, who honestly, scares the bejesus out of him.

Stiles had met the gunner to his navigator a week ago, and took an instant dislike to him.  Derek Hale is sullen and moody, and Stiles doesn’t particularly like rooming with him.  Hell, he doesn’t like having anything to do with him.  It’s hard to trust a man who, instead of shaking his hand during their first meeting, bit his finger like a dog, leaving a sizeable indent behind.

When Stiles was in the academy, learning how to fly, he used to imagine what it would be like to have someone else watching his back.  The muscles to his brain, working the starfighter’s guns while he flew them from enemy fire.  

Derek Hale is weird, and has an awkward fixation with sinking his teeth into Stiles whenever possible.  He is not the gunner Stiles ever imagined having as a partner.

Stiles sighs, shifting uncomfortably in his seat, trying to catch some sleep, however elusive it may be.  He has a long day tomorrow: a meeting with captain Argent, followed by a video conference with his training officer, something he’s not looking forward to.  Harris has always been a pain in Stiles’ ass, and graduating from the academy has not changed that one bit.

The door whooshes open, flooding the cabin with light.  Stiles quickly sits up in his seat, gathering his blankets to his chin, startled.  They’re technically not allowed to be in the starfighters off duty, but Hale is insufferable enough for Stiles to break rules and risk getting caught.

Speaking of Hale, the man himself stands in the doorway, arms folded across his chest, a perpetually sour look upon his face.  “So this is where you’ve been sleeping,”  Hale states, judgement in his tone.

Stiles grimaces, and falls back in his seat, pulling his blankets over his head.  “Go away,”  he mutters.  

Instead of leaving, like Stiles asked, Hale seems to walk closer, boots thudding on the metal, until the seat beside Stiles groans under the weight of Hale sitting on it.  Stiles peeks an eye out from under the blanket, only to see Hale staring up at the star map, face lit by the glow emanating from it.

“So this is what you see everyday,”  Hale says, a hint of what seems like wonder in his tone,  “It’s beautiful.”

“There’s nothing beautiful about killing people,”  Stiles grumbles, and Hale snorts in amusement.

“No, I guess there isn’t.”  The seat creaks and Stiles finds Hale turning to look at him, wearing a puzzled look.  “You’re a very strange man.”

“Ditto,”  Stiles says, throwing the blankets off his body to the floor, accepting that he’s probably not going to get any sleep with Hale here.

“How strange, to sign up for a war when you don’t enjoy killing,”  Hale says quietly, like he’s pondering on what makes Stiles tick.

“Do you like killing?”  Stiles asks, honestly curious about the answer he will receive.  Most of the other pilots and gunners in the program were driven by duty, some of them revenge.  But once in a while, Stiles would stumble across one who joined just because they enjoyed the blood.  People who were itching to get out and kill the enemy on the front lines.  Bloodthirsty bastards with dead looks in their eyes.

Hale tilts his head to the side.  “I don’t fight because I want to.”

Stiles frowns, confused.  “There was no draft on Earth, people who wanted to, signed up.  I did, because it was expected of me.  My father was a pilot, naturally I needed to be one too.”

Hale hums.  “Like you said, there was no draft on _Earth_.”

Stiles startles, thinking of what Hale’s implying.  If Hale is not from Earth, that could mean only one thing.  Stiles huffs.  It explains all the biting.  “You’re from Luna.”

“Born and bred.”  Hale spins the seat around, doing a total 180 before facing Stiles again.  “Weres are drafted left right and centre on Luna.”

Stiles frowns.  “I’m sorry you weren’t given a choice in joining the war.”  Weres are treated like second class citizens on all the colonies.  Things are better on Earth than they were only a few years past, but they’re not perfect.

Hale tilts his head to the side.  “I’m sorry you weren’t either.”

“I wasn’t-”

“But weren’t you, really?”  Hale interrupts. “Wasn’t your choice taken away from you, too?  Not because your government forced you, but because of your father’s expectations.  Your duty.”

Stiles stays silent for a long moment, before getting up from his seat. He stretches his arms over his head, cracking his neck.  Stooping down, he gathers up all of his belongings, before walking to the door.  Calling over his shoulder he says, “Aren’t you coming?  I’ve got a long day tomorrow.  I need a good night’s sleep in a bed for once.”

He turns around again, climbing down the ramp, but before he does, he sees Derek following after him, a faint smile, brightening up his normally stoic demeanour.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sent by Anonymous:
> 
> you have [Conjuring] drabbles! that's so excited :D no pressure or anything but do you think you'd be willing to share them. I love everything you write and the conjuring is my favorite movie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Flattery will get you everywhere (including into the deep water trench that is the cast away section of my docs) Anyways, I’m only going to post this one bit, because it’s the most coherent of all the drabbles. It’s an AU of Stiles and Derek’s early relationship, before the events of the first conjuring film, enjoy!

Stiles pulls out a cigarette and lights it, taking a long drag.  

He stands on the side of the street opposite the house, watching, unaware of passersby casting him puzzled looks.  The street is well lit, especially under the lamps, but there are alleyways further on where the edges of darkness seem to call to him.  Whispering misdeeds and blood spilled on cobblestones.  Ever since he was a teenager, he’s never felt truly alone in darkness.

He finishes the cigarette, eye never leaving the building.  Stomping on the smouldering butt, throwing it into the gutter, Stiles crosses the street, looking both ways for traffic.  He learned, the hard way, to not let the beyond distract him from the physical.  

When he reaches the other side, he lifts his fingers, searching, and unsurprisingly meets a barrier.  To anyone, it looks like he’s patting at thin air, but to Stiles, an invisible surface harder than steel is raised in front of him.  

He wonders what would have happened if he, or anyone else with the sight, was in a plane that happened to fly over the building.  Does the barrier stretch that high?  If it does, would they hit the barrier and be thrown out of their seat, along with the plane and all it’s passengers?  Or would the malevolent spirit within, be no match for tonnes of steel and jet fuel?

Stiles is not willing to find out.  He doesn’t fly anywhere, he doesn’t even like to take the train if he can avoid it.

The sounds from the street fade as Stiles closes his eyes and concentrates.  He can hear the sound of a drainpipe, dripping, water falling onto the earth, slowing corroding the cobblestones.  The smell of metal and petrichor singing in the city air.  The smoggy fumes from motor vehicles surround him in a fog, but beyond what lies on the surface, exists something else.

An all encompassing darkness.  The barrier might be invisible, but beyond it, lurking within the depths of the house, lies an abhorrent evil.  It sends a shiver down Stiles’ spine to even think that someone lives with a creature so demonic.  If his senses delve past the physical barrier, preventing his body from going any further, he thinks he can almost hear a harsh, visceral breathing.  Like the sound a steam engine might make when given its first breath of coal.  

It wraps around Stiles’ head, pulling and prodding, breathing coming faster and stronger, until tendrils seems to unravel from the darkness, reaching through its own protective barrier for him.  The darkness seeps out, and a cold sweat falls over his skin.  He tries to move but finds his feet glued to the earth.  He can’t do anything but wait, but even waiting is too long.  He wants the creature to come for him, he wants it to wrap him in its embrace.  To love him.  Can’t Stiles see?  All it wants is love.

Love, is what the creature thinks when the tendril wraps around his throat.  Love is what it breathes when it tries to smother him.

Stiles wakes screaming.

***

Derek hands him a cup of camomile tea, climbing into bed after.  He slides under the covers Stiles is buried beneath, even though it’s the middle of summer.  The ceiling fan moves so fast, it shakes the plaster off.  Sometimes they wake with huge chunks scattered all over the bedspread.  

It’s not like they could afford to rent better accommodations.  Their apartment was the only two bedroom within walking distance of the university.  Being two men, they couldn’t rent a single bedroom without raising a few unwanted eyebrows.  They already get enough of those because of their work.

Instead, they’ve turned the extra bedroom into a collection of sorts.  Items they’ve collected, all pertaining to the cases they’ve worked on.  From hauntings to possessions, the items remain in the triple blessed room, preventing the evil within from ever escaping.

Derek strokes warm fingers across his brow, shifting his bangs to the side.  “What did you see?”  He asks.

Stiles shakes his head, “Ask me again when it’s daylight.”

Derek presses a kiss to his forehead, whispering comforts against his temple.  Stiles thinks that without Derek to keep him tethered, he might go mad, between the visions and the constant hum from the beyond, he’s never truly left alone.  “We have class early in the morning, get some sleep.”

Stiles rolls his eyes, sipping the warm tea.  “Yes, Professor Hale.”

Derek snorts, lips trailing down Stiles’ cheek to whisper in his ear, “Call me that again, Mr. Stilinski, and none of us will be getting any sleep.”

Stiles sets his tea to the side, rolling over to face Derek.  “You know, I’m going to earn my PhD in a few months, soon it’s going to be Dr. Stilinski to you.”

Derek pulls him forward into a lingering, soft kiss.  “I can’t wait for the day.”  


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt sent by kiseopingu:
> 
> Oh gosh I have no real idea but I’d love to read some Sterek fluff from you??? Maybe a modern!AU of any kind?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it became a The Office au, and I'm not even sorry...

“Due to an administrative error, the entire San Francisco branch has been merged with the Beacon Hills branch,”  Lydia says distastefully, reading off a fax straight from corporate. Crumpling up the sheet, she tosses it in the bin.

“What exactly does that mean?”  Kira asks nervously. Stiles looks around at the three extra people in their already cramped office.  All of them are pretty scary looking, but the man whose stick-on  _ hello my name is _ tag reads ‘Hale’ has a glare to rival no other, and Stiles has known Lydia since they were in the sandbox.

“It means that until corporate finds a new office space in San Francisco, which considering the demand and cost of real estate in the city, will be nigh on impossible, they are stuck here with us,”  Lydia says, glaring at the newcomers.

“Hey, we’re not to blame,”  the woman says, her name-tag reads Erica with a heart over the i.  “That’s on our manager.” She smirks. “It’s not our fault he didn’t renew the lease.”

“That’s not my responsibility, Erica,”  Hale says, arms crossed over his admittedly significant chest.  “That was corporate’s job.”

“Actually,”  newcomer numero three, Boyd, says,  “That’s acquisition’s job.”

“Acquisitions?”  Hale asks, frowning deeply,  “Who handles that?”

“Damien, I think,”  Erica says. “But he moved to Costa Rica.”

“Didn’t we hire someone to replace him?”

“Our human resources guy was supposed to, but he left to, and I quote, enact revenge upon his dick of a father,”  Erica says.

“Huh,”  Hale says, eyebrows scrunched so tightly together they look like one long unibrow of death and destruction, and apparently bad managerial skills.  Yikes. Lydia’s going to whip him right into shape.

Stiles chuckles, and leans back in his chair.  Hale sends him a look that could freeze the balls off any other man, but Stiles casually fixes his polka dot tie in a show of dominance.  Hale blinks, and his eyes drop to Stiles’ throat. Ah ha, victory.

As Lydia’s right hand man, and the second in the office, Stiles was worried that a former manager could easily usurp his position.  Now he’s not so sure Hale has the skills or the cojones to do it. The San Francisco branch was last place in sales, and Beacon Hills in first.  Stiles has received achievement award after achievement award from corporate. They’ve even invited him to L.A. to give a speech about how he’s the best damn salesman in the company.

He eats men like Hale for breakfast.  Ain’t no city slicker going to come into  _ his _ office and steal the title he earned from years of slaving away and schmoozing.  Stiles winks at Hale, and the man turns red right from head to toe. Oh yes, Stiles has already won.  Consider the dick measuring contest a success.

Lydia splits them up, Erica joins the accountants, Boyd goes over to product oversight.  Hale would join sales, except there are no empty desks left. Stiles sits in his uncomfortable wheely chair, and pretends like it’s the iron throne, smirking up at a lost looking Hale in triumph.

Stiles is more smug that a prize winning pumpkin farmer at the county fair, that is, until Lydia saunters on over and declares that he has to share his desk with Hale.

“But, but,”  Stiles sputters, as Lydia pushes aside his collection of photos, until they’re all piled in one corner, and Stiles can only see one, which kinda defeats the purpose of keeping photos on one’s desk.  The photo of him as a kid with his parents is still visible, but he can’t see the one of him and Scott trick-or-treating as kids. Nor the one where Kira, Scott and him went hang gliding. Or the one of him in his first car, his baby blue Jeep.  All of his twelve photos, but one, have been relegated unimportant. All because of Hale.

“Hey,”  Hale says,  “I’m Derek.”  He holds out his hand.

“Hi Derek,”  Stiles says sharply,  “I’m busy.”

“Oh,”  Derek says, sitting in the chair Lydia pushed over to him.  It’s one of the newer ones. Figures he gets the nice ergonomic chair while Stiles gets stuck with the shitty one.

Stiles picks up the phone, but he doesn’t actually have to call anyone.  It’s just, if he has to talk to Hale for any longer he might just throw a stapler at his perfect face.  He calls Kira instead.

“Kira,”  Stiles says when she picks up,  “How many reams of paper have you sold today?”

“Uh,”  she says through the line, her voice echoing in the office and through the receiver.  She hangs up the phone, and looks at him from across their joined desks, saying, “Twenty.”

“And it’s only nine o’clock.”  Stiles claps. “Amazing!” He turns to Derek with a snarl.  “How much paper have you sold today?”

Derek looks at him in confusion.  “None?”

Stiles guffaws.  “None!?”

“Our accounts haven’t been set up yet—”

He leans right into Derek’s space, and he goes cross-eyed trying to look at him.  “Listen here, bucko, I’m the best salesman in this company. To even consider beating my record, you’re going to have to try much, much harder than that.”

“Um,”  Derek says, blinking rapidly.  His face is turning red again, and he smells very nice, which is besides the point.  But Stiles has got him backed right into a corner. In a few weeks—hopefully not months—Derek is going to be outta here, and Stiles will get his desk, and peace of mind back.

The next morning, he walks into the office to find Derek at his desk.  His back is to Stiles, so he can’t see exactly what he’s doing, but Stiles knows he’s up to no good, for sure.  Stiles slams the office door shut, and Derek jumps a foot in the air, turning around guiltily. When he sees Stiles, he relaxes minutely.

“What the hell are you up to?”  Stiles demands, marching forward.

“Listen, I think we got off on the wrong foot yesterday—”

“I asked you a question…”  Stiles trails off when he sees his picture frames organized on a three tier desk organizer.  It’s a simple metal design with no back, so he can still see and speak with Kira if he wanted to.  Just, now more space on his desk. His photos are tilted so Stiles can see them perfectly, whether he’s on the phone, or working on his computer.

“I picked it up yesterday,”  Derek says, scratching the back of his head,  “I felt bad about coming into your space, and taking it over.”  He reaches over and adjusts a frame, the one of him and Scott at Halloween, where Stiles is dressed as Spiderman.  “You were a really cute kid.” He smiles sheepishly.

Stiles opens and shuts his mouth a few times, at a loss for words.

“Oh, I also got you this chair cushion.”  Derek picks up one of those massaging cushions with roller balls that heat up in winter and cool down in summer.  “I noticed your chair was losing some stuffing, and figured you’d need it.”

Stiles takes the offered cushion, and hugs it to his chest.  He swallows. He’s been looking for one for ages, but he couldn’t afford to buy one with his own money, and there was no room for it in the office budget.

Stiles licks his lips.  “This doesn’t mean I like you,”  he says.

Derek smiles,  “No, course not.”  He walks up to Stiles and holds his hand out in offering.

Suspiciously, Stiles shakes his hand, but there’s no static shock like he was rubbing his socked feet against the carpet, no chewing gum on his palm, no nothing.  Just a nice, friendly handshake with a guy who smells really, really good. (Still besides the point.)

“Hi, I’m Derek, and we’re going to be sharing a desk for the next few days, weeks, or months, it’s nice to know you.”


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt sent by hitorimaron:
> 
> Whoaaa, honestly anything?! What about something sci-fi-ish?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh look, another space au....

Jupiter is beautiful in the morning.  Actually, Jupiter is a big, roiling mess of gas and radiation at any time of the day.  But, in the morning, when Derek has just woken up, and he’s sipping a warm cup of not-coffee, getting ready for a long day of work, Jupiter’s roiling mess is outstandingly beautiful.

For one hundred and fifty three days he’s woken up to this view, but today’s the last day.  The research mission is complete, the scientists have collected all they need. Soon they’ll be hurtling through space, back on earth.  Derek’s gotten to know the crew well these past months, he’s worked with them before, transporting people and equipment to the outer planets.  He’s going to miss Erica’s untameable bed head, Isaac’s acerbic personality, and Boyd’s quiet voice in his ear. But really, the person he’ll miss most of all is Stiles.

One of the scientists, sent to collect readings of Jupiter’s radiation levels, Stiles is funny, and smart, and Derek has it bad.  Real damn bad. At first he couldn't stand Stiles, but after only days of being crammed together in this tiny tin can of a ship, Derek would be a fool to deny that they grew on each other.

Derek’s head of engineering, and Stiles is some flavour of astrophysicist, but they both love space something silly.

Derek floats down the engine room, and looks over Erica’s fuel calculations.  That’s where Stiles finds him.

“Hey,”  Stiles says, only to whack his knee against the doorway.  “Ouch.” That’s Stiles; clumsy, even in zero gravity.

“Hey yourself,”  Derek says, “We’re breaking out of orbit in a little over an hour.”

Stiles chuckles, kicking his legs out so he floats on over to Derek.  “I’ll keep my barf bag handy.”

“Please don’t throw up in my cockpit.”

“I’m properly motivated not to,”  Stiles says, “I know with the gs we’ll be under it’ll just splash right back.”

Derek makes a face.

Stiles cracks his knuckles, something he only does when he’s nervous.  “I was wondering, what do you plan on doing when we get back home?”

Derek hums.  He skims down his tablet, going over Boyd’s engine check.  “Oh, I don’t know, grab a burger somewhere, I guess.”

“My buddy Scott makes the best burgers ever,”  Stiles says, “He does this thing where he takes turkey bacon, slathers it with mayo, and sandwiches it between two angus patties, then covers the whole thing in jerk seasoning.”

Derek looks up from his tablet, to Stiles’ eagar expression.  “No offence to your friend, but that sounds like the most disgusting thing I’ve ever heard of in my life, and I’ve smelled samples from Uranus’ atmosphere.”

“I know it sounds bad, but it’s actually pretty good.  Last time we were in the Mojave, taking some cosmic readings, we grilled them right on the Jeep’s hood after it crapped out on us.”

Derek laughs.  “Looks like you could have used an engineer.”

“Oh?”  Stiles quirks a brow.  “Mr. Rocket Scientist knows how to fix a problem with a common Jeep.  I’m surprised.”

Derek smirks.  “I know engines, let me guess… you were in the desert, which means a fine grit sand, so the air filter must have been clogged.”  Stiles’ jaw drops. “So I was right?”

Stiles rolls his eyes.  “You engineers...” He trails off.  Chewing on his lip, he looks out the big observation window to Jupiter’s big red spot swirling below.  “But seriously, we should hang out, not just when we’re out in space. When we have solid ground beneath our feet, and our hair doesn’t look like a mess.  Well, my hair mostly, I don’t know how you always look so put together. Gravity would be nice.”

Derek smiles down at the… ceiling?  Yes, gravity would be nice for once.  “I’d like that. If you ever wanted to take me out to the Mojave, I promise if our car stalls I’ll be able to get it up and running in no time.”

Stiles grins, and reaches out to take his hand.  “It’s a date.”

**Author's Note:**

> [Come Tumblrize with me](http://iamonlydancing.tumblr.com/)


End file.
